Spoon
by Mindy35
Summary: Jack/Liz. One bed.
1. Chapter 1

Title: Spoon

Author: Mindy35

Rating: M

Disclaimer: Tina's et al.

For: hamnapkin

Prompt: shared hotel room

Spoilers: none

Pairing: Jack/Liz

Summary: Jack and Liz share a bed.

-x-x-x-

This should be awkward.

When they landed in this _unintentional _situation, Jack assumed that sharing a bed with Lemon would be awkward. More specifically, he thought it would be awkward for her. He is used to sharing his bed with women. Many women. Not all at once, but individually, is what he means, over years. Lemon is not the type of woman he generally shares his bed with, but she is still a woman. A fact that never quite escaped his notice, despite any effort he made to ignore it.

Lemon is a woman. With all the parts and all the contradictions and all the complications of a woman. All the appeal too, if only she knew how to use it.

_She's_ the one though, with the unrelenting intimacy issues and chronic aversion to all physical expressions of love and lust that commonly take place in this arena. _She_ is the one who developed a thing for him, which she is yet to get over, though he can hardly blame her on that score. _She_ is the one who hasn't shared her bed with anything besides the universal remote she nicknamed 'Smitty' for nigh on four long months. Not that Lemon considers this a dry spell, just a breather. And not that Jack has been counting, or is interested. Except as her friend.

Liz is also the one who has him vaguely mystified as she lies on her stomach, arms flopped over the end of the bed, chin planted on a pillow and feet kicking back and forth in the air as she randomly lets out guttural belly laughs at the cartoons that play on the hotel room's tiny television screen. Sitting up against the headboard, in his navy pyjamas, Jack crosses his ankles, lays his book face down on his chest. He cocks his head as he regards her.

The hotel clerk thought he'd orchestrated this. As if Jack Donaghy needed any such machinations to get a woman into bed. Even a woman like Lemon. And by that, he means inexperienced and ingenuous. Perhaps though, he should actually say _especially_ a woman like Lemon, considering how loath she is to do _anything_ in bed except sleep, eat and apparently watch slapstick cartoons that a five year old would quickly find inane.

For the record, and despite the hotel clerk's knowing tone and stifled smirk, he _did not_ deliberately book only one hotel room with one double bed (and calling it a double was even a stretch) in a town where clean rooms without flooding, pests or rampant asbestos were a rarity. And where the nearest city was a long, sludgy drive away. This whole thing was just a simple screw-up on Jonathan's part. And Jack intended to see him punished for it when they returned to New York from whatever backwater borough they were now in.

What's more, if by chance, Jack _did _want to get Liz Lemon into bed, he could think of far more effective and imaginative ways than a hotel room blunder. He knows her far too well to think that this would be the way into her heart. And/or pants. This is definitely not the way he would seduce her, if that's what he set his mind to. Not that Jack has ever considered making such a move. The idea is beyond preposterous.

Apparently Liz thinks so too. Because if she had any fear that he intended to even look at her funny, let alone touch her in any way, she wouldn't be as relaxed and happy as she currently seems. She seems perfectly at ease, splayed out in her worn White Haven High School sweater and flannel pyjama pants, hair in a messy ponytail. To be honest, Jack isn't sure how to feel about that. Whether to be flattered that she trusts him, is comfortable with him, is completely relaxed around him and has accepted this _accidental_ situation. Or whether he should feel irritated and offended that she doesn't view him in even a slightly sexual light. It doesn't concern her that he might pose a threat to her virtue. It doesn't even occur to her what could potentially happen between them in this bed, on this very night.

If they were two completely different people, that is. If he wanted her. Or she wanted him. Or both extreme implausibilities occurred simultaneously.

After all, Jack considers himself an attractive man, as well as being an attentive, imaginative lover. So his hair is a little grey -- most women like that. And his eyes are not as blue as they once were – he can still make a woman weak at the knees with just one ravenous look from deep within them. And he may not have really tried to lose the weight from the incessant stress-eating that has escalated since Liz Lemon entered his life. He is still a fine, dashing, strapping hulk of a man. Objectively speaking. So even if it is implausible, even if Lemon is inherently trusting, even if he is her best friend in the world, this should still be a little awkward.

For her. It should be awkward for Liz.

Instead of showing any signs that it is though, she turns to him in the add break, eyes all lit-up as she asks if he wants to order room service. Before he can answer, she clambers over his lap, briefly collapsing on him as she reaches for the menu on his nightstand. He hasn't time to protest the move or fully process the feel of her breasts pressed against his thigh before she withdraws into a kneeling position, eagerly scanning the list of meals while her tongue runs over her lips with excessive relish. Jack clears his throat, watching her, and points out that it's far too late for room service to be available.

"Oh." Liz's shoulders slump, she throws the menu aside. "I wasn't that hungry anyway." She glances at the television, at the mini-bar next to it. "Wanna share some massively over-priced nuts or something?"

"You just said you weren't hungry," he murmurs.

She makes a face at him. "I'm always hungry, Jack. There are just levels of hunger. You, of all people, should get that--" she leans over and pokes his gut with her finger: "Mr 'The Muffin Basket is for the Board Meeting'."

Jack puts aside his book, pulls the covers up higher. "Actually, Lemon, I think we should both get some decent sleep tonight. We have a big day ahead of us tomorrow."

She nods, then gets up off the bed and turns off the television. Jack sets the alarm clock for them, takes off his glasses and lays them on the nightstand. He is rubbing his eyes when Liz comes in from the bathroom, toothbrush hanging from her mouth.

"I should tell you something," she says around the brush and foam in her mouth.

"What's that?"

"I kick."

"I beg your pardon?"

She takes the toothbrush out and enunciates clearly. "Sometimes -- in my sleep -- I kick."

Jack nods, brows drawn together. "…Why?"

"Who knows," she shrugs, then adds: "I also talk. Sleep-babble. Weird stuff, but not all the time. It depends."

"On?"

"Stress levels, prob'ly. But I'm miles away from both Tracy and Jenna so hopefully I won't do it tonight." She turns to the bathroom, then turns back to tell him: "And if I snore, which I also do sometimes, just, you know…" she makes a shoving action with both hands: "roll me over."

"I'll do that," Jack mutters.

Liz disappears back into the bathroom, tip-toeing on the chilly tile. When she re-emerges, switching off the light, she comes to stand by the edge of the not-so-big double bed, looking down at him, already beneath the covers. "So…wanna go top to toe or what?"

"No, Lemon," he answers swiftly: "Not if you intend to kick me."

"I don't _intend_--"

"We have meetings tomorrow. For which I'd prefer not to have a bloodied nose."

"But--"

"Just--" he interrupts tiredly: "come to bed."

Liz draws in a breath: "Okay…" then climbs under the warm covers.

Jack turns out the light.

_TBC..._


	2. Chapter 2

Title: Spoon

Author: Mindy

Rating: M

Disclaimer: Tina's et al.

See part one for rest.

-x-

Jack wakes twice throughout the night, which is not unusual. He is generally a light sleeper, especially when not in his own bed. Liz does not seem to have the same problem.

As soon as she has kicked the bedclothes into her desired position and assaulted the pillow a few times with blows that apparently are meant to make it more comfortable for her, she falls into a deep and, as far as he is aware, undisturbed slumber. She does not kick him. Which relieves him, although she does do a little light snoring. Nothing major enough to keep him awake.

Generally when Jack has a guest in his bed, he doesn't do a great deal of sleeping. That's not the purpose of them being there. And frankly, once that purpose is consummated, he is not entirely comfortable with having another body so close to his. He can always sense that other presence. Even in his big bed, he is always aware of every shift of the covers, can detect every contented sigh and feels jostled every time that other body twists or turns. Lemon is a deep sleeper but a restless sleeper. He would have expected no less. She is not peaceful in her everyday life, he could hardly expect her to display any such quality while unconscious.

The first time Jack wakes, it's because he can feel a warm clump curled up against his back. He fell asleep with his back to her, and Liz mirrored the position, curled up on her opposite side. At sometime around two a.m. however, he can make out the feel of her hands balled up against his spine and her knees somewhere around his butt and her breath puffing warm through the material of his pyjamas. He tries to shift away but Liz groans, rolling closer. He whispers her name a few times, elbows her gently, enough to make her mumble sleepily: "What…? Sorry…shut up, nerd…"

She retreats to her side of the bed and Jack nestles into his pillow, determined to get some sleep. Surely, if she can, he can.

The second time he wakes up, his eyes just crack open for no reason. She doesn't disturb him in any way, although his sleep remains light. The wind outside is whipping up a storm, quietly rattling the one fragile window on its hinges. Liz has shifted onto her front, her arms tucked under her pillow and one cheek mashed into it. She is quite close. Closer than Jack has found himself to anyone in a long time. Especially someone he knows.

Because when -- and it isn't often that he actually spends the night with one of his casual conquests -- but when he does and he wakes to see a stranger's face, it can be startling, disconcerting. Sharing that intimacy with them, seeing their face unconscious, having them trust him in that way. It's also disconcerting for him to allow them to see him that way, if they happen to while he is unaware. At times, he can't believe he is sharing his bed with a relative stranger. Whoever they are, and whoever he is to them. He especially can't believe he got naked with them, joined with them bodily, grunted and sweated against their nakedness until they were witness to his climax.

Strangely, this arrangement only seems odd to him in the silent oblivion of mid-morning when everything is still and he feels utterly alone, despite sharing a bed with another being. Lying in the dark, all the faces of all the women seem to blend into one indistinct unknown. And he wonders sometimes whether his does the same for them.

When Jack wakes and sees Liz though, he knows that face. Almost as well as he knows his own. He's never seen it quite like this before. But over the years, he has been witness to a multitude of expressions passing over it, a parade of mostly unhidden emotions. There is nothing indistinct to him about her face. Even what his eyes can't quite detect in the darkness, his memory can fill in with perfect clarity. In fact, he knows her so well that he thinks he could almost recognise the cadence of her breathing even if he couldn't see her at all.

It strikes him then how long it's been since he has woken to someone he actually cares for and feels completely secure with. He is reflecting upon this, still half-asleep when Liz shatters his musings with a slurred but distinctly irritated: "Bitenuker…"

Jack chuckles quietly.

After this, he doesn't wake until morning. In fact, after this, he sleeps very well. Better than he has in years. Deeper, more serene, more still. Possibly because -- and this is only a guess -- but in their sleep, he and Lemon find a way of sharing the small bed that seems to suit the both of them.

He doesn't wake with the alarm. It's early when his eyes drift open. His bigger body is curled about hers in a warm, comfortable spoon. His chin is dipped inside the neck of her sweater, his nose resting against the back of her neck, breath falling steadily there. Her back expands with each breath, tucked tight to his front, her butt nestled in his pelvis, their legs bent together. One of his arms is hugged to her chest, he can feel her lips, her breath on his fingers and her hand loose about his wrist. His other arm acts as her pillow, stretched out along the sheet with one of hers, their fingers entwined, drooping over the edge of the bed.

All this has created a very natural, though again, _unintended_ effect on another part of Jack's anatomy, which doesn't seem to grasp that their unconscious spooning isn't leading to where it usually might. Jack sucks in a breath as he wakes more fully to himself. And to Liz. In his arms. Carefully, he eases his hips back, despite the more natural instinct to press them closer. The tiny movement is all it takes to wake her. She stirs slightly.

He freezes.

And she freezes.

And for a long, uncomfortable minute, neither of them dares to move or speak. They barely breathe.

Finally, Jack swallows and croaks: "So, ah…how long are we going to lie here and pretend we're still asleep?"

Liz still doesn't budge, but he can practically feel her wince. "I was more concentrating on not mentioning your penis. Which…didn't work--"

"It's a physiological response," he points out a little too quickly.

"I know," she replies, just as quickly: "Of course I know that."

"Good."

"Right," she adds: "But…maybe you should take the first shower...?"

"I'd be very grateful if you did, actually," Jack mumbles, unable to conceal the strains of arousal buried in his voice. "I'm going to need…a moment."

"O-okay…" Liz scoots away from him in the bed, then literally tumbles over the edge of it. When her head pops up, her hair dishevelled and eyes skittish, she mutters: "I guess I didn't kick you, huh?"

"Not hard enough," he replies, clearing his throat.

She lets out an uncomfortable laugh, stumbles onto her feet and quickly escapes to the bathroom. When the door slams shut, Jack rolls onto his back on the bed, releasing a groan. He runs a hand over his face, before tucking both hands under his head. Involuntarily, his hips arch up toward the cheap, scratchy hotel sheets, which retain the warmth from their combined body heat. And which still smell slightly of woman. One particular woman. One particular woman he was not meant to want this way. Or any way. At all. Ever. For lots of good reasons. Which he should be remembering. Right now.

When the bathroom door flings back open though, and Liz darts out covering her eyes, he quickly corrects himself under the covers.

"I'm not looking!" she says, dashing to her suitcase: "I just forgot…everything." She sprints back to the bathroom with her arms full of clothes and toiletries, lets out a high-pitched yelp as she stubs her toe on the way. Then the door shuts with another bang at the same time as the alarm clock starts to loudly chirp.

Jack whacks the off button and slumps beneath the covers.

_TBC..._


	3. Chapter 3

Title: Spoon

Author: Mindy

Rating: M, sexual situations

Disclaimer: Tina's et al.

See part one for rest.

-x-

_Now_ it's awkward.

More than a little.

For both of them.

He'd venture to guess that it's slightly more awkward for him, but that would be underestimating Lemon's supreme unease with anything physical, anything biological. She must know that for any normal man this is a simply an accepted feature of their working biology. And to be perfectly honest, it's hardly the first time he's had an erection around the woman he spends the majority of his time with. Not that Jack has told Liz this or sees any need to. He's certain she would not wish to hear this little tidbit of information. Especially from her best friend and the man _she_ spends the majority of _her_ time with. He doubts she'd even be comfortable hearing it from a lover. And in any case, he always attributed those other instances, not to anything she did, but to sheer coincidence and his naturally high sex drive.

What is unsettling though, is that lately – aside from this morning -- Jack's sex drive has needed…a little help getting started. Since the dissolution of his last actual, serious relationship, he has been with only two women. Both gorgeous, both impressive, both quite a bit younger than he. Both of them he knew very little about except that, in the past, both had been capable of arousing him.

Something had changed though, in the interim. Without him being aware of it. _He_ had changed. What used to work was not working now, and he had no clue why. Leo Spaceman had told him that this was a perfectly natural development, an inevitable part of growing older. He'd prescribed for him his new sex book as well as some little blue pills to help with what Jack hoped was only a temporary dysfunction.

The only other time this had happened to him was for a short spell after he and Bianca finally split for good. But he was a fairly young man then. He was confident his libido would return full strength. And he was right. It did. Without any drugs or therapy or much time at all. He went on to make love – correction, _nail _-- a succession of hot women in a very deliberate effort to sever the act of sex from any feeling at all. As far as Jack was concerned, one did not belong with the other. Sex and Love were two separate occurrences that separately made sense and together made mess and heartache. A person could have one or the other. But not both, and still be happy.

So Jack chose sex. Every time. He chose sex over love.

It was an easy decision, for the most part, a simple one to make. It was a decision that was meant to keep him young. Keep him happy and strong, untouched and unscathed. It was a decision he looked back on with little regret and no second-guessing. Until recently. The past…four years or so. He blames Lemon for that. All her talk of marriage and babies, her yearnings to settle down and have it all. It's infiltrated his thinking. It made Jack forget that once, he had it all. Well, most of it all. And it fell apart. Which meant he could have it all again -- and it could fall apart again, just as quickly, leaving him as desolated in it's wake as he'd been the first time.

Still, as Jack lies in the narrow hotel bed, contemplating the ceiling, he can't help thinking that his body is trying to tell him something. Something very important. Something he's been trying to avoid for years. Something that the noise of his normal life has made almost impossible for him to hear, except in this sleepy little town, on this cold, still morning. After all, the body possesses a logic all it's own. And ordinarily, Jack listens to that logic very carefully. It's not making a great deal of sense to him right now though. Perhaps because, in spite of his efforts to ponder his way out of this little predicament, Jack is still hard. As hard as he was when Liz left the bed.

His body shifts again beneath the cheap sheets. She has been in the shower for close on a decade now. Probably washing him off her. And trying to scrub the memory of this entire morning from her bizarre brain. To her, it probably makes even less sense than to him. She is less used to thinking about sex. Or things related to sex. And anything she does think about sex probably has the equivalent understanding of a twelve year old. Not a particularly informed twelve year old either. Although actually, it occurs to him that she is probably still in the shower in an effort to give him some time to deal with himself, make himself more presentable.

Not that Jack intends on indulging in any such activity while his friend _and employee_ is in the other room, liable to re-enter at any moment. For one thing, the hotel room and all it's fixtures are just too depressing for him to relish the act. And for another, his…imaginings in that state can be quite random. Who knows what he might moan in the heat of the moment, when carried away by lust. Also, considering his recent lack of…inspiration, it seems rather wasteful, cruel even, to have to either will his very natural erection into submission or to have to appease himself. Though that is probably what he will have to resort to.

Once Lemon is gone, of course.

Jack is not in the habit of engaging in self-love. Mostly, he considers it unnecessary, not to mention an anticlimax – so to speak. And anyway, that is precisely what his little black book is for. That's what his faceless women are for, the simplicity of quick and easy gratification. But he is miles from his black book, miles from any bright lights or big city and miles from a woman who would gladly fulfil his importunate desire. It seems like a bit of a bad joke, considering how the last time he used his little black book turned out. The timing must have been off -- that must have been the cause -- the timing was wrong with…whatever her name was. And his current morning glory is simply a delayed reaction of sorts, a purely physical response to specific stimuli.

Stimuli called Liz Lemon. Stimuli that is right in the next room, stepping out of her marathon shower, slamming the door almost as if in warning. Jack hears her clattering around in the adjoining room and quickly pushes himself out of bed. He is standing by his nightstand, clasping his hardcover book in a strategic position when she peers out the door. When she sees him, she immediately opens the door, steps out as though not wanting to appear awkward. Which only makes her appear much more awkward. She is fully clothed, right down to her socks, her hair still a little damp and her eyes still skittish as she sidesteps across the room, gingerly keeping her distance.

"Hey..." she murmurs with forced cheer: "how you doin' there…buddy?"

Jack straightens his spine, voice deliberately disdainful. "It's an erection, Lemon, not a contagious disease. You can't catch it."

Her cheer collapses. "I know," she scowls: "I was just…" Her eyes skate over him uncertainly.

He puts out a hand, then instantly retracts it. "What is it you think I'm gonna try?"

She shakes her head. "Nothing!"

"Nothing," he replies: "Exactly."

"Yeah…well. Whatever." She shoots him a withering look as she gathers her glasses, jacket and a bundle of papers: "You can do…whatever you need to do…I'm going to the diner for pancakes."

Jack nods, keeping his book firmly in place. "Fine. I'll be down shortly."

She rolls her eyes: "Fine," and heads for the door.

Her footsteps are hurried, her eyes cast to the floor as he watches her go. She nearly drops all the papers she has clutched to her chest as she reaches for the handle but eventually, the door closes. She is gone and Jack can breath easily. He lets out a breath, throws his book aside and stretches his arms over his head. He immediately heads for the bathroom. It doesn't help him in his state that the bathroom is filled with warm mist from Lemon's shower. And hanging in the mist is the perfume of the hotel's complimentary shampoo. It is sweeter and stronger than Liz's usual shampoo, which Jack can recognise now with just a single whiff. Those sort of products are simply designed to drive men wild, he's sure of it.

He elbows the bathroom door closed as he pulls his pyjama shirt over his head, too frustrated to deal with buttons. He is naked and under the lukewarm spray in a matter of moments. He should've known Lemon would leave him little hot water but that is probably not a terrible thing. He lathers the hotel soap in his hands and runs them over his chest, shoulders, around his neck. Gradually, his hands move lower, circling his stomach before straying lower still.

He tries to think of nothing. Nothing at all. Nothing but simple sensation. And when that doesn't work, he tries to think of the last woman he had meaningless sex with. When that only succeeds in confusing him, Jack thinks of the last woman he loved. But when that doesn't help, he starts to run through a catalogue in his head. A catalogue that includes his ex-wife, various past girlfriends, then various wives, exes and girlfriends of other men, a film star or two, classic favourite fantasies and even the odd sportswoman or business associate. When this approach also doesn't have the desired effect, Jack attempts to go back to thinking of nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

But…nothing turns into Lemon's hand on his wrist, his arm hugged to her chest, his fingers grazing her sweater-clad breast. This turns into her ass nestled against his hard-on. And his mouth against her skin, breathing in her familiar scent. He tries to interrupt himself, genuinely tries to derail, distract, deviate his own mind from it's chosen course. Instead…he starts thinking about Liz naked, standing where he stands, the warm water running down her chest, off the tips of her breasts. He thinks of her running her hands over her wet head, of how her breasts would rise with the movement, how her lips might part to take in some of the falling water. He thinks of her hands on her own body, even in the most functional, ordinary way. Of the hands he knows running deftly over, cleaning the curves his eyes have secretly traced through her clothes.

From there, it isn't hard imagine her standing right there with him, her wet, soapy skin sliding against his, her voice whispering, then moaning his name. Her wet head tipped back against his chest as he cups her, explores her. Or her eyes meeting his as she turns. It isn't hard – correction, _difficult --_ to picture those same hands running over his body, unsure at first, then growing more bold, grazing his arms and circling his chest before moving low. Lower. Lower. Giving him what he wants. What he needs. What he really, really just has to have.

At which point, Jack stops thinking altogether. His mind lets go and something else takes over. He keeps imagining, keeps breathing steadily as the cool water skims over his head. He keeps moving his hand over himself, pumping languidly as his eyes remain closed and his other hand braces his body against the wall. He keeps himself mostly under control, as much as is possible, right up until he comes, releasing a groan that also releases a name. A name that bounces off the tiles, that echoes back his desire. A name he says regularly, almost everyday -- but never like that. Never. A name that sounds taut with passion, like he's been bottling it up for who knows how long.

The sound of this name is followed closely by the sound of a door slamming. Beneath the rush of the falling water and the blood rushing though his veins, the sound doesn't really register with him at first. He is panting hard, trying to catch his breath. And when he does think of it, Jack assumes it was the door of the room adjacent or across the way. It's only when he is out of the shower, towel tucked about his waist, combing his hair in the steamy mirror that he realizes that the door that slammed sounded much, much closer than that. It's the same moment that he notices he didn't actually close the bathroom door properly. It's also the same moment that he recalls Liz going for breakfast but not leaving with any shoes. That when she left so hastily, her boots were still by the bureau where her suitcase lay open. The bureau that stands right by the bathroom door. Which was slightly ajar. While he was…preoccupied.

It's then that Jack realizes he wasn't as alone as he'd thought.

_TBC..._


	4. Chapter 4

Title: Spoon

Author: Mindy

Rating: See part one for rest.

-x-

He has to face her at some point. Jack decides he might as well do it while Liz is partially distracted by food.

She doesn't see him approach, dressed in the best suit he brought with him, tie flawlessly knotted in place, face clean shaven and patted with expensive aftershave and hair dried, naturally of course, into it's usual suave spike. As he heads across the diner, he both wants her to look up and see him and is dreading it. Because he knows, he'll be able to tell with one look, just a single glance, how much Lemon knows. How much she heard. He'll see it in her eyes.

"Oh, hey--" she says when she notices him, then seems to cut herself off.

Jack stands by the booth where she is skimming some of her papers whilst shovelling pancakes in her mouth. He clears his throat. "You have something on your…"

She frowns, lifts a hand towards her face. "Where?"

He points to a red smear on the corner of her mouth. "Your lip."

"Oh…" she pushes the smear into her mouth with one finger, sucks the finger then continues talking: "So you want the good news or the bad news?"

Jack carefully slides into the creaky booth. "There's good news?"

She shrugs, apparently concentrating on her breakfast. "Semi-good."

"Give me both," Jack replies, picking up the menu and scanning the high-grease, low-taste options.

Liz waves her fork at the TV hanging over the diner's bright red counter. "We're snowed in," she tells him, mouth full: "Looks like we're here for another night, whether we like it or not."

Jack turns in his seat to take in the local news, the footage on screen of snow laden streets and snow bound cars. "…I see."

"_Bu-ut_," Liz continues cheerily before he turns back: "the good news is that the hotel manager found me a cot to sleep in. So I won't bother you tonight."

Jack turns back to face her. He's silent a moment. "You didn't bother me last night."

"I didn't?" Liz pauses in her eating, takes a sip of coffee. As she puts down her cup, her eyes flick over to his then hastily away again.

And with that one look, that one tiny gesture, Jack knows. She knows. She heard. She absolutely heard. There's no doubt in his mind. Liz was there. And she heard exactly what he'd hoped she hadn't.

She digs determinedly back into her breakfast. "Well, anyway," she plows on, and it's only then that Jack hears the tension in her voice, beneath the cheer: "I like sleeping in a cot, it remains me of camp."

"Shouldn't _I_ sleep on the cot?" he answers, his voice coming out a little grouchier than he intends. "Why can't I be reminded of camp?"

"You never went to camp," she points out: "And you wouldn't fit on it anyway."

He lifts his brows. "But you will?"

"Just," she replies with a half-shrug.

Jack goes silent again. "Lemon," he tells her, voice low: "you don't need to sleep on a cot."

Liz opens her mouth, nods a little, then says: "I think I should sleep on the cot."

"You take the bed," he insists: "I'll take the floor."

"I want the cot," she insists: "I like the cot."

Jack looks away, drops the menu on the tabletop. "We really should've had this discussion yesterday," he murmurs, mostly to himself.

"Y'think?" Liz mumbles into her next mouthful.

Her eyes flick up and meet his again. And there's that look again. That same look, that unmistakable look. That squirm-worthy look. That look that lets him know that she knows his dirty little secret.

And that's when it hits him that there will be no escaping Lemon today. There usually isn't, but today, there's _really_ going to be no escaping her. They will be eating three meals together (if Liz can limit herself in that way), in between which they will either be stuck in a snow-covered rental car or be doing business all day. After that they will reluctantly retire to their cramped, dreary hotel room where they will no doubt argue some more about that night's sleeping arrangements.

All the while, both of them will be trying desperately to pretend that what happened that morning did not happen. They will both be pretending that everything is exactly the same. They will both be ignoring every accidental touch or furtive look that floats their way and reminds them of how that morning, they woke together in a warm and comfortable spoon. And how…right…that felt.

Jack sighs. He better order a good breakfast.

This is going to be awkward.

_END._


End file.
